


Skin

by wicked



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angels, Hurt, M/M, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Supernatural - Freeform, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:39:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wicked/pseuds/wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the boy is beautiful, the most beautiful thing that Gerard can ever remember seeing, with the black tattoos curling their way down the luminescent skin of his arms, visible even in the darkness. </p>
<p>Two boys in need of something only the other can provide...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Found

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Skin  
> Pairing: Frank Iero/Gerard Way  
> Disclaimer: I do not own any members of My Chemical Romance, however I do own the plot.  
> Warning: Swearing, blood, violence, slight religious themes  
> Author's Notes: This is the first story I've posted here. This story is also posted on LJ. Please let me know what you think.
> 
> Please check out the AMAZING [ART](http://innocent-wolves.livejournal.com/13219.html) by innocent_wolves

It’s raining. Again. Rain seems like the only forecast the New Jersey sky seems to be equipped for because it’s been offering its citizens nothing else for the past two weeks. Everyone is tucked in safely at home, avoiding the freezing cold pelting down on them, the crash of thunder and the lightshow that follows. Everyone except the man walking leisurely down the broken sidewalk, his pace showing anything but disdain for the weather as it soaks through his clothes, his lifted hood doing nothing to protect him.

 

            Amidst the claps of thunder and the rain crashing loudly into everything it hits, there’s enough noise to drown out the unintelligible words tumbling from his lips as he makes his way across the street without a single look to what else could be traveling adjacent to his path. There’s no one to hear his drunken ranting, no one to shoot furtive glances as they usher loved ones to the opposite side of the street.

 

            The moan of agony is almost lost to him beneath the clamor of the night; the cry of pain seems to almost come from within him rather than the small alleyway before him and had he not taken a moment from his mumblings to light his cigarette he surely would have missed it.

 

            Inebriated enough to heed no concern for himself, he shuffles into the lane, his stick of nicotine forgotten within a small lake at the mouth of the entrance. Cocking his head he searches through the downpour for the source of the small whimpers still making their way past his ears.

 

            He’s never seen such terrible beauty, the way the small body before him is curled in on itself, lying on it’s side, dark hair covering the youths face as he arches against the pain, a pitiful whine slipping past his lips once again, unaware of the man in black watching him writhe in agony.

 

            And the boy is beautiful, the most beautiful thing that Gerard can ever remember seeing, with the black tattoos curling their way down the luminescent skin of his arms, visible even in the darkness. Gerard knows his hands are shaking as he continues to gaze at the small boy in front of him, senses blurred against the alcohol still coursing strongly through his veins.

 

            There’s blood covering the youth, streaming from unidentified wounds, spilling down his body into the water he lies in; Bloody and mauled and dirty and beautiful.

 

            Without another thought Gerard feels himself reaching out to the strange beaten boy, placing his hand on his shoulder before realizing that it might produce a less than desired reaction, considering the circumstances he found the boy in. The yelp of fear that issues past the youths lips causes Gerard to grimace before hastily removing his hand and taking a step backwards.

 

            His eyes are bright and wild and full of fear as he stares, curling his knees in closer still to his chest while simultaneously sitting up. Gerard can see his clothes are soaked clear through, his thin white t-shirt a meager shield against the rain and the cold of the night; he’s shaking hard as he continues to stare up, chest heaving against his knees.

 

            “I didn’t mean to scare you…” The words fall from his lips before his intoxicated brain can decipher what they are. “Are you okay?” The dark haired youth continues to stare, his eyes alight with wonder and fear, unspeaking and shaking.

 

            Gerard can’t think, staring at this beautiful boy with his shining skin and tattoos and bright eyes; he swallows hard, feeling his own chest heaving as the rain continues to pour down on both of them, and he suddenly wants to be anywhere but in the rain, wants desperately to get this striking creature somewhere warm and dry.

 

            “I promise I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” His fingers reach down once again to the trembling boy, lightly touching his small shoulder, his lips touched by a small smile of reassurance as he continues. “How’d you like to get out of the rain? I’ve got a place not far from here, you could crash there, at least until it stops raining…” As the words filter through he can’t help thinking that he sounds like he’s coming onto the kid, cursing his stupidity once again.

 

            With a slight cock of his dark haired head, the boy reaches his own hand up to Gerard, allowing himself to be lifted from the pavement, his eyes never leaving Gerard’s face, searching, searching for some answer to some unspoken question. A quick shiver runs up Gerard’s spine at the intensity of the boy’s stare before he’s gripping the offered hand tightly within his own as he leads them out of the alley.

 

            He walks quickly, dragging the unnamed boy behind him, looking over his shoulder every couple seconds to check on him as they walk-run to the apartment, Gerard stumbling with the keys as he tries to get them out of the rain as swiftly as possible.

 

            When he finally manages the lock he pulls both of the trembling bodies into the apartment, flicking on the lights as he dashes down the hallway, pulling out towels and blankets from the closet before rushing back to the boy still standing in the hallway, his arms crossed over his chest, seeming to vibrate. His skin is glowing beneath the harsh light, his lips tinged blue, his teeth clattering violently against each other.

 

            Gerard throws the towel around the boy’s shoulders, frantically rubbing up and down his exposed arms, hoping the friction will warm his skin, will stop the powerful shaking beneath his frenzied fingers. He can feel eyes on him as he continues his task, afraid to look up and see horror reflecting in those exquisite eyes, until eventually the shaking has subsided and it would be inappropriate to continue touching the boy.

 

            Gerard’s eyes lift grudgingly, bracing himself for the anger and screams and accusations that are bound to be thrown, but the boy just stares with such wonder that Gerard can’t help but stare right back. He gazes like he won the lottery, like Gerard’s his savior and his whole world wrapped into one haggard person. But he looks scared too, like Gerard might just hurt him like whoever had earlier tonight. Fear and adoration and awe are written in his features.

 

            Tearing his eyes away from the beauty before him, Gerard remembers that the kid was bleeding just minutes ago and that despite the fact that he’s looking heaven sent right now, he could have serious injuries; he might even need a hospital, though Gerard is hoping that it’s nothing more than what he himself can deal with, he doesn’t want to drag the kid anywhere else tonight.

 

            Pulling the boy’s arm once again Gerard heads to the his bedroom, unsure of how he’s going to go about helping the boy whose name he doesn’t even know.

 

            “Where are you hurt?” He’s not sure if that’s an appropriate first question, but maybe the most pertinent in the moment. His eyes are searching the bright green ones staring up at him from the perch of the large bed. Gerard’s afraid for a moment that maybe the kid is deaf or doesn’t understand English; all he does is continue staring at Gerard for a few more minutes, his lips almost lifted up in what could be mistaken as a smile before his fingers are gripping the bottom of his shirt and pulling it over his head in one swift movement that sends Gerard flying back against the door in a panic.

 

            There’s barely a moment for Gerard to admire the small hips and flat stomach before his eyes are assaulted with exactly what the boy was intent on showing him. Bruises paint his skin like a canvas, the purples and greens and blues blurring between the smooth white, seamlessly melting until they’re barely discernable and he can’t imagine what sort of beating must have occurred to cause such casualty. Gerard doesn’t meet the boy’s eyes, feeling his heart beating strangely fast and erratic against his chest.

 

            Standing, the dark haired youth then turns facing his back towards Gerard, and there’s guilt and disgust and sadness crawling it’s way through his veins like poison slinking it’s way from his brain, tightening around his throat and seeping into his heart, wrapping itself around his stomach and he’s barely at the porcelain before he’s expelling this mornings breakfast and his liquid lunch and dinner, left only with his heaving gasps and the blistering tears trailing across his pale cheeks as they burn their way through his skin as the poison boils beneath it.

 

            He sinks to the floor, his forehead resting against the stark white tub, hoping the cool ceramic regulates his breathing, stops the tears from flowing down his cheeks with more ferocity than before as the image of the boy broken and bleeding on the pavement of a dark alley stains his vision in red.

 

            Biting his lip he hastily wipes at the tears still spilling down his cheeks, lifting himself from the floor. Splashing his face with cool water he takes a final calming breathe reminding himself that someone else is now counting on him and he can’t go falling to pieces. Pulling open the door he rushed through moments ago, he holds the wet cloth firmly as he returns shakily to the bedroom, confusion and disbelief and horror pushing his feet forwards until he’s standing before the boy again.

 

            “What’s your name?” Gerard knows his voice is shaking slightly, knows that his mind is a bit unstable at the best of times and there’s a good chance this is all a dream, or perhaps a hallucination.

 

            Once again the boy cocks his dark head to the side, biting his bottom lip in uncertainty, his brow slightly furrowed but no sound makes its way past him. Gerard isn’t deterred, pressing on.

 

            “I’m Gerard, I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help.” Gerard takes the boys nod as understanding and his fingers reach forward once again, the boy lying on his stomach as the taller man’s fingers come in contact with the softest skin he’s ever felt, sure that it’s all still a dream, but secretly hoping it isn’t. He can feel the bile rising in his chest as his fingers brush against the drying blood across the boy’s small back. Lifting the cloth Gerard applies as little pressure as he can, wiping away at the dried and still flowing blood alike, listening to the soft whimpers from below him.

 

            Gerard can’t imagine how someone could do something so horrible to such a beautiful creature, still wiping at the strikingly marred skin, revealing it to his eyes as he wonders whether he ought to bandage his wounds up. A strange and terrifying realization hits Gerard once the blood is cleared away, the wounds down each side of the boys back now visible, the skin red and raw from Gerard’s ministrations and what’s clearly been torn from him; Gerard’s flying away from the youth for a second time, his back pressed tightly against the wall, his eyes wide with fear meet wet green.

 

            “You’re an angel…” 


	2. Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the first 11 chapters of this already written, posted on LJ. I'm adding them here over the next little bit while I write the next chapter.

A nod of his dark head is all the confirmation that Gerard is offered, and as yet another shaking breath fills his chest he pushes himself off of the wall, hesitation and uncertainty lacing every step towards the small boy lying on his front, those brilliant olive eyes watching, pleading. Long fingers shake as he grabs the wet cloth he’d dropped in his surprise, continuing his task of cleaning the boys wounds, his throat tight with the new knowledge.

 

            “So, uh, do you have a name?” Gerard feels like answers, or perhaps just noise to fill the silence will help him deal with the surprise and the horror. The boy simply turns his head to look again at Gerard, his gaze as intense as it was the first time they locked eyes, before he slowly shakes his head.

 

            “Well, you need a name…” Gerard ponders for a moment, biting on his bottom lip as his brows furrow in thought, the disgust rolling waves through him as he wipes the last of the blood, the boy’s eyes never leaving his face. “We’ll have to pick something, I can’t call you ‘kid’…what about Trevor?” A quick shake of his dark little head, a scrunch of his nose and Gerard is left to nibble on his bottom lip, deep in thought. “Jake?” Again his offer is denied.

 

            “Oh, what about Frank?” The boy’s eyes brighten once again, plush lips lifting up to expose all of his teeth as he nods excitedly; his very skin seems to glow with pleasure and Gerard finds himself smiling and laughing in response, quickly stifled beneath the velvet tight against his mouth. Eyes wide, arms flailing and the pressure gone like it was never there to begin with. Frank’s staring innocently up at him as though he’d never moved, and Gerard can’t help thinking that perhaps he didn’t, perhaps he just imagined those lips pressed briefly against his own, perhaps he’d had more to drink that he previously supposed. A shaky breath, eyes darting to observe the boy angel whose smiling up at Gerard like love and awe and worship.

 

            “Alright…Frank it is.” And the boy is still beaming, even beneath the pain of Gerard’s deft ministrations, allowing his tender skin to be covered in gauze and tape and bandages, Gerard’s long fingers caressing Frank’s supple skin unconsciously as he tapes the final pieces in place, a soft hum emanating from the boy, his eyes fluttering closed at the feel of Gerard’s touch.

 

            “Can you talk?” Frank nods breathlessly, opening his mouth to accentuate his point before his brows furrow in confusion when nothing passes through those lips, his fingers grasping at the thin skin of his throat wordlessly, head shaking and bowing to stare at the black comforter once again and Gerard’s head is filled with bewilderment.

 

            “Can you understand me?” Frank nods once again, olive eyes confused as the struggle to speak continues within the youth, his lips set in a determined pout, small exasperated huffs issuing past his closed throat. And Gerard can’t help thinking he’s the cutest and saddest thing he’s ever seen.

 

            “Where’d you come from?” Gerard realizes the youth can’t properly form an answer, rephrasing, “Did you, I mean, are you from, uh, heaven?” Gerard’s eyebrows are furrowed in matching distress at the possibility he’d long ago abandoned. Frank’s nod is again his only response, eyes heartbreaking and outraged and poignant and Gerard can’t stop the small crack that appears along his heart for the broken boy sitting on his bedspread. It’s clear that Frank has more to say, some explanation that can’t escape his lips and he’s begging Gerard to understand his desperate eyes and fluttering hands.

 

            “I don’t understand Frankie…I don’t know how to help you…” Again the boy’s brow is furrowed, jaw clenched, eyes darting fleetingly around the room, hoping to find something only he knows. Gerard tries following his gaze, but the boy’s eyes are roaming so quickly he can’t keep up, unsure of the intended target anyways. “Please Frankie, tell me what to do!”

 

            The boy angel looks up at Gerard once again, remembering his existence, his eyes all bright and awestruck before his lips are pressed against Gerard’s once again, the speed and fluidity of his movements completed before the older man has even registered them. Even though it’s not the first time the boy has placed those velvet lips against Gerard’s his surprise is no less than the former attempt; eyes wide and unsure, fingers pressing with soft resistance into the bare skin of the boy’s shoulders, pushing him and his shiny lips away until Gerard feels like he can breath without taking in the same air as the boy staring up at him with that strange and unjustified mix, and his hands are shaking as he touches them to his lips to confirm that they do in fact belong to him, their warm wetness verifying that Frank’s were pressed up against them mere seconds ago and Gerard knows that he’s losing it for real this time.

 

            His mutters of ‘oh God, oh Fuck’ a mantra he repeats as he wanders hastily from the bed, the wall, the dresser, the window, until he reaches the door, his head swiveling to look at the boy still perched, legs crossed easily, on the bed, his lips smiling and shining and tempting.

 

            “I’ve got to um…just-” His fingers grasp the doorknob, pulling it open before he can reconsider his earlier decision, ripping himself from the room before he’s dashing down the hallway, breath rasping against his fingers as they continue to trace his lips, seeking confirmation again. His eyes dart to the slightly ajar door of his room like something might tear it’s way through it. Nothing moves in the silent apartment except the heaving chest of the man who rents it.

 

            Throwing his body into the worn leather of his couch, fingers threading their way through unwashed hair, eyes closed, thoughts whirling. He contemplates what to do with the strange creature – angel boy – Frank. He doesn’t want to send him back out to the streets, unsure if he even has somewhere to go, but also knows that he’s barely able to keep himself fed, washed and clothed. There’s a new, strange, and somewhat unwelcome need to protect the boy; uncertain when it arrived but cursing it’s appearance nonetheless.

 

            Knowing he needs to return to the bedroom can’t continue to hide out in the cushions of his couch, contemplating the complexities of life and whether or not there might actually be a heaven from which the beautiful creature on his bed came from. His legs feel stiff though he knows from a quick glance at the clock he’s barely been sitting for more than twenty minutes. One more, much needed deep breath and he’s feet are leading him back to the source of all of this confusion.

 

            Fingertips press lightly into the dark wood of his door, eyes closed briefly with regret and slight embarrassment at his most recent disappearance-escape; the boy no doubt imagines him half crazed.

 

            The sight of the boy creature-angel curled up, inked fingers gripping the dark sheets below his chin, battered silk skin hidden from Gerard’s searching eyes and wandering fingers as he seats himself as gently beside the boy, refraining himself from touching the vision before him.

 

            “Frankie?” Gerard knows the boy is half way asleep, knows he couldn’t-wouldn’t answer even if he wasn’t. “Who did this to you?” The slow rhythmic rise and fall of the small chest, the pout of his lips, the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and Gerard’s fingers are stretching, straining, touching, Frank’s skin smooth and flowing and Gerard is lying beside the sleeping boy before he realizes he’s moved. His limbs forming a mutiny against his thoughts as he curls up closer to the boy, quickly comfortable beneath the sheets.

 

            His lips press against the forehead of the dormant boy before his own eyes are wavering against the lull of sleep. “I won’t let anyone else hurt you.” His promise a whisper against the velvet skin of a broken boy-angel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!! 
> 
> Cheers  
> Kat


	3. Introductions

Gerard watches the way Frank’s eyes flutter in the throes of a dream, or more likely, a nightmare, the soft skin between his eyebrows furrowing as the spidery lashes fall still once more, their plight against his cheeks lost or forgotten once again as his small frame falls still against the black sheets.

 

            His fingers run across the inked skin, wondrous of the flawless shift between skin and ink and back again, the pictures etching themselves against the back of his eyelids for future reference, his fingers tracing across each line, color, detail; mesmerized in the wake of the complex beauty.

Scorpion. Swallows. Stars. Hearts. Guns. Words.

It’s perhaps the words he’s thinking more about when his fingers trace against the soft skin of the others neck, his brow furrowed in confusion and sadness and slight anger.

 ** _Keep the Faith_** crawling beneath his thumb as it unconsciously rubs against the ink, conceivably wishing it would smudge into Frank’s canvas skin.

 

            “Why?” His voice is barely above a whisper but it seems like a crescendo of noise against the silence that’s been enveloping them for the innumerable hours, minutes since Gerard found him, since the moans and whimpers and cries were ripping their way through the little angels throat.

 

            “Why would someone do this to you Frankie?” It’s the second time the older man has asked a silent question knowing no answers will be forthcoming from the boy shrouded in darkness and sleep and nightmares, whose skin is like silk and ice, smooth beneath his fingers as he strokes through it’s splendor.

 

            He’s still rubbing at the words, staring so intently, trying to read through the pages of Frank, a book he can’t seem to comprehend, squinting against the headache that’s formed between the furrows of his brow, winding itself down his spine.

 

            “I’m so sorry.” Gerard knows it’s hardly enough to erase anything but he doesn’t have words enough for what he’d like to say, not sure he could utter the words even if he could imagine them, despite the fact that they’d be lost to the sleeping boy. His arms have a better idea than his head though because without his permission they’re wrapping themselves around the waist of the smaller boy, pulling him close, pressing chest to chest, his chin resting on the soft brown hair, inhaling before he can stop himself; senses and limbs betraying his brain before it can discern the relentless mutiny and then two thin arms are coiling themselves over his shoulders, Frank’s warm body pressing itself closer to the hard body offering him the first honest sensation of salvation he can ever remember.

 

            The sigh of two boys slumbering beneath waterfall skies lulls both to sleep.

 

 

            Knock.

            Knock.

            Knock.

 

            Gerard’s contemplating simply remaining exactly where he is, eyes closed, Frank’s little head perched on his chest, thin arms wrapped around his waist, and ignoring the incessant pounding of a fist against his front door, until the fist finds it’s voice.

 

            “Gerard Arthur Way! Open the fucking door!” There’s an inadequate growl in the back of his throat, opening his eyes to the sunlight struggling through his blinds at the sound of his brothers demand. Looking down at the small body still softly sleeping, limbs entangled with his own, he again has the urge to ignore Mikey’s cry and pretend he’s perhaps not home.

 

            The fist pounds again.

 

            “Gerard!!” Conceding defeat, Gerard begins his attempt to untangle the angels’ limbs from his own, carefully lifting each appendage to not disturb his sleep and somehow, through Mikey’s screams and threats, Gerard rearranging his sleeping form, and the pounding on the door, Frank sleeps. Gerard snorts once at the sight of the angel snuggling into his pillow before exiting the bedroom, his feet escorting him down the hallway, before pulling open the door to a red faced brother.

 

            “Where the hell have you been? Did you not hear me beating your door, screaming your name for the past ten minutes?” Gerard knows Mikey, knows that the best way to deal with whatever he’s in trouble for is to let him vent, give him a cup of coffee and apologize. All will be forgiven. So he nods, utters a quick ‘sorry’ and ushers his younger brother into the apartment.

 

            Mikey’s scowling, dropping himself into the too worn sofa, then jumping up again, pacing around the living room, brows drawn across his forehead. Gerard watches.

 

            “Were you ignoring me?” Gerard takes a moment to contemplate this question, considering his options as he pulls two mugs from the cabinet.

 

            “When?” Gerard decides it best to simply play dumb, knowing that this could lead to one of two reactions out of his brother and hoping for the second.

 

            “When?! This morning you asshole! What the fuck did you think I was talking about? What, are you drunk?” This question seems to trigger another thought, because Mikey is off again, pacing through the small space between the living room and the kitchen, back and forth, back and forth, muttering and ranting, arms flying like some sort of deranged bird, glasses barely hanging onto the brink of his nose.

 

            Gerard’s known the kid his whole life, knows that in about five to seven minutes he’ll calm down, at which point Gerard will kindly offer him the cup of coffee as apology for whatever it is that he did wrong, and they can go about their days once again. In the mean time, the little angel-boy sleeping in the room down the hall occupies Gerard’s thoughts, wondering idly if angels dream.

 

            “Are you even listening to me?” The sheepish smile tells Mikey all he needs to know, the offered coffee accepted despite it. “I just don’t get it Gerard…I worry about you.” The younger man’s admission is muted, fingers massaging the bridge of his nose as if to exemplify the truth of his statement and Gerard can’t stop the bubbling of guilt.

 

            “I’m sorry Mikes…” It’s all he can offer, both brothers know it and for the present it will have to suffice because he’s got nothing else, but he’s considering a truth; not the one that Mikey came for or is expecting, but a truth nonetheless. So he’s guiding him to the couch, practically pushing his shoulder down into it before he’s sitting across, fingers wringing as he contemplates how best to make such an announcement. And then he’s jumping out of his seat, rushing down the hallway and back into his bedroom.

 

            And Frank’s just there. Sitting quietly on the bed, his eyes bright and awed and staring and those lips part immediately at the sight of Gerard before he’s pounced off the bed, those same lips pressing themselves to his throat when Gerard lifts his head away from the angel-boy who seems completely unfazed by the aversion. Gerard can’t help the small smile tugging, can’t help the fire blazing in his cheeks.

 

            Grabbing Frank’s hands, he tries to explain Mikey and the situation and what he wants and the boy just smiles so Gerard hopes that means that he understands but since he doesn’t speak he has no real way of knowing, so he’s just hoping. He’s still holding onto one hand as he pulls Frank, topless, down the hallway towards his brother.

 

            “What the fuck?” Mikey’s jumping up from the his seat, eyes wide as he looks at the battered boy clinging to his brothers hand, shock and anger and confusion boiling in his veins and his eyes and his heart and he feels sudden sickness rising in his throat. “No, no, no…please Gerard, please tell me you didn’t do this.” Gerard’s eyes are drawn along the lines of his brother’s vision, the bruises blossoming on Frank’s skin like a curse as realization slaps Gerard across the face.

 

            “No, of course I didn’t!” His fingers tighten unconsciously around the smaller ones grasping his own. “I, uh, found him last night…I’m not entirely sure what happened actually…” Teeth are pulling on too chapped lips, anxiety clear and piercing in his eyes as he touches the boys shoulders, wordlessly asking him to turn and Mikey’s gasp is resonating through the quiet apartment.

 

            “No…oh fuck…” Gerard offers a nod of confirmation before Mikey is weakly dropping his body into the couch once again, eyes wide and staring at the fallen angel-boy before him. “He’s an angel Gee…”

 

            “I’m not sure…I mean, he definitely used to be, he sort of told me as much, but I’m not sure if he is anymore…it seems like maybe he was kicked out or something…” Mikey’s nodding now, watching the angel – Frank – walk around the apartment, taking in the view for the first time himself, skeletal fingers touching everything he comes across; wide eyes and pursed lips and curious fingers. Gerard finds himself once again following his brother’s eyes, his lips pulling up in the corners as he watches the beautiful boy, cursing his distraction when the boy disappears into the kitchen, his focus once again on his younger brother.

 

            “What are you going to do with him? I mean, are you planning on keeping him?” Mikey keeps his voice quiet, unsure if the strange ex-angel boy can hear them or not. Gerard furrows his brows at his brother, annoyance edging his tone when he answers.

 

            “He’s not a pet Mikes.” And Mikey’s own frown appears almost simultaneously, looking over Gerard’s shoulder for the boy who is still investigating the kitchen and out of sight.

 

            “I know that!” His shoulders slump as he contemplates the situation his brother’s found himself in. “I think you have to keep him for now…he doesn’t seem to have anywhere else to go, right?” Gerard’s looking towards the kitchen, concern dragging his eyes to the almost silent kitchen, and Mikey’s continuing without his brothers’ full attention. “If someone’s out there intent on hurting him, he’s probably safer here anyways.”

 

            The crash of pots and clattering that follows pulls both brothers from their seats, rushing into the kitchen to investigate.

 

            Frank’s sitting on the linoleum floor, surrounded by what Gerard thinks is every pot, pan, dish and piece of cutlery he owns, smiling and giggling slightly as he bangs them against one another again, the harsh crack causing yet another giggle to escape his lips before he’s looking up at Gerard and Mikey, eyes wide and delighted and Gerard can’t help the sigh that escapes his throat before shrugging at the boy. Turning back to his brother he can’t help mimicking the smile before joining Frank on the floor, his own hands attempting to begin cleaning up some of the smaller pieces of aluminum that the boy doesn’t seem to be using.

 

            Mikey’s still standing in the doorway of the kitchen as he peeks at his watch before announcing that he needs to get going, lest he be late for work, and Gerard gets up from the floor, leaving Frank to his musical practice, following his brother to the door.

 

            “Thanks Mikes…just, uh, call me later.” And he’s pushing his brothers’ shoulder out the door, thankful to whoever saw fit to send him such an amazing kid sibling. Closing the door, he rests his forehead against it for a moment, the wood cool against his skin. The resonating clatter brings him rushing back to the kitchen to make sure the angel-boy is still alive. 


	4. Unspoken

Gerard’s wrapping, in vain, a coat around a wiggling Frank, trying to coerce him into the small woolen article that Mikey had brought over. The boy has different ideas as he tries to push his arms, once again, into the sleeves of Gerard’s jacket, pressing his chest against the older boys, smiling, eyes alight once again as his lips press themselves against his cheek in two rapid successions, and Gerard almost wants to simply allow the boy his small request, almost wants to throw both jackets into the closet once again and wrap both of their bodies in blankets for the remainder of the day. If it weren’t for the bare cupboards and a complete absence of anything remotely edible residing in the fridge, he probably would have.

 

            “Frankie, please, put on the jacket.” The boys pouted lips and drawn forehead almost cause the lips of Gerard’s mouth to lift once again, but he uses the temporary lack of movement to wriggle the remaining limbs into the jacket, zipping it up before grabbing the boys hand, feeling very much like the parent of a beautiful toddler as the boy issues a small huff of protest before curling his body closer to Gerard’s once again, his eyes closed, lips parted in contentment.

 

            Two buses, a multitude of stares, a silent game of eye-spy and they’re walking through the front doors of the grocery store, Gerard’s mood souring quickly as he considers the gawking males and females they encountered on their trip, the way people stare at Frank like they’ve never seen such a sight, and Gerard can’t help the way his blood simply boils at the thought.

 

            It’s been a little over a week since Gerard found Frank – the angel creature – and he’d been attempting to feed him an assortment of foods, discovering quickly his distaste for all animal products except cheese – the boy was crazy for cheese.

 

            Making their way silently through the isles of the store, Gerard tries to ignore the stares the two boys continue to evoke, tries to shake the feelings of anger when a woman blatantly stops in their path to stare wide eyed at Frank, although the boy is paying no attention; his fingers and eyes on the assortment of canned food, reaching vainly for beans that Gerard has to fish off of the top of the shelf for him. Gerard wants to shoot a glare at the woman who is still staring, gaping really, but his attention is averted to the boy-angel once again as he races back around the isle, grabbing Gerard’s hand before leading them to the next set of shelves, little squeaks of glee emitting from his lips as he points out the collection of ice cream cartons.

 

            They leave the store laden with more food that Gerard can ever remember purchasing for himself before, sure that most of the contents will actually go to waste before they manage to eat them, but unable to deny Frank most of the items he enquired about or dropped into the cart.

 

 

            They’re lying in bed, Frank wrapped up in a pair of Gerard’s sweatpants and hoodie, pulling the duvet around his shoulders like some sort of cocoon; Gerard is trying, in the same way he does every night to teach or remind Frank how to speak. The lessons have not gone very well so far.

 

            “Gerard.” He points at himself, once again, Frank’s bored expression hardly a deterrent as he continues. “Come on Frank, your turn.” And the boy’s pouting those lips again, something Gerard has gotten used to, though hardly able to ignore the affects of the action. Still, as if Frank realizes the importance of the task to Gerard he closes his eyes once again, concentrating, moving his lips to form the words, still in silence; no sound escapes his lips.

 

            Gerard knows that Frank is trying, can see it in the way his brow furrows, despite his obvious chagrin for the whole process.

 

            “It’s okay Frankie, it’s just going to take some time.” He knows that this may or may not be true and that it’s entirely possible that Frank may never speak, but he’s willing to put in the time to find out for sure; and so they continue their practice.

 

            It’s about thirty minutes later when Frank has clearly had enough; Gerard wants to continue pushing, continue teaching, but he knows that the angel has had enough for the night, his fingers reaching out to flick the switch of the light, flooding them in darkness before Frank’s body against his is felt.

 

            “You did really well tonight Frankie…” There’s a soft hum beside him, one of the few noises that escapes the boy’s throat besides little moans and whimpers and giggles.

 

            Gerard can feel sleep threatening to overwhelm him, can feel it coming at him in waves, almost drowning him, but he has too many questions still, hasn’t asked them for days. The way that Frank is pressed against the length of his body, his thin little fingers circling across Gerard’s chest distracting him to the point where he’s not sure he could sleep anyways.

 

            “Why are you here Frankie?” His voice is barely above a whisper, the darkness calling for a silence that he hadn’t really known before Frank appeared. “I wish so badly that you could just talk because I just feel…I don’t even know…” There’s desperation and longing and confusion lacing his voice and he knows the helplessness of it because he can feel it in his bones and the boy’s fingers have stopped moving and the weight of his head on Gerard’s chest is gone, lifting until it’s eye level.

 

            And Frank just stares. Staring like he does so often, like Gerard just can’t get used to because it makes him feel strange and beautiful and unworthy. And when the angel’s satin lips touch his, when his breath mingles with Gerard’s neither can help the sighs that escape.

 

            It’s not a brief touching of lips, this kiss means something; Gerard can feel it in the way that the angel-boy’s pressing himself harder against him, his little fingers grasping at the cotton of his t-shirt and Gerard knows that he’s being told something of the utmost importance, feels the he’s being let in on some universal secret.

 

            And then it’s over and Frank is just staring once again, his eyes bright in the darkness of the room; bright and frightened and hurt and Gerard’s struggling with what that kiss could have meant so he’s wrapping his arms around the boy angel, pulling him down, resting his head once again on his chest, his own hands rubbing soothingly across the boy’s back because he doesn’t know what else to do, because this is what he’d do to Mikey when they were kids and it seems like Frank could use it.

 

            Gerard knows when Frank has fallen asleep, can tell by the slight rise and fall of the boys’ chest against his side and the breath that floats across his neck, the hopelessness engulfs him once again, the waves crashing until he's drowning, cursing whoever banished the creature clinging to him in the darkness.


	5. Visions

Gerard is boiling water and noodles in the kitchen, sipping furtively at a bottle of whiskey and idly wondering if he could trust Frank to watch over the pasta so that he could run out to grab a baguette to add to their meal, when he hears the crash, the squeak, and the thud that follows shortly.

 

            “Frank! I swear if you’ve broken another lamp I’m gonna start charging you!” The laugh he’s barely suppressing is swallowed as he enters the living room; the sight of Frank pressing his back against the wall, cornering himself into the room, eyes wide and staring and terrified. The lamp is shattered across the hardwood, jagged pieces scattered and glinting in the afternoon light escaping the half open blinds and Gerard fleetingly considers that perhaps Frank is afraid of him, before realizing that Frank is staring straight ahead, eyes seeing something invisible to the older man.

 

            “Frank?” Voice low, soft, soothing, Gerard tries to gage how to help the little angel-boy who’s shaking now, little vibrations reverberating through little bones, shaking a too small body that just can’t seem to hold any weight despite the amount of food he consumes. Frank’s still staring though. Gerard doesn’t know what to do, isn’t sure how to deal with this situation, isn’t even certain what the _situation_ is.

 

            “Come on Frank, please, what’s going on buddy? Are you okay? Are you hurt? I’m not mad about the lamp, okay? We’ll go pick out a new one, maybe plastic this time.” He knows he’s rambling, running all his words together but Frank’s still staring straight ahead, eyes widening still, fear written across his features. And still, he doesn’t look or acknowledge Gerard.

 

            “Please Frank! Tell me what to do!” The helplessness of watching is driving Gerard close to the edge, can feel himself teetering on the cusp of desperation as the boy-angel titters nervously in the corner of the room, eyes wide and terrified, whole body quaking with a ferocity that has Gerard biting on the corner of his lip in concern.

 

            Frank’s chest is heaving, breath barely exhaled before he’s gasping for the next, eyes darting around the room now, a pattern that Gerard can’t follow; doesn’t even know what the angel’s looking at or for because there’s nothing in the apartment that Gerard can see, but he knows he’s never been more terrified for himself or anyone else in his whole life.

 

            Gerard doesn’t know what to do or how to help Frank but he thinks that maybe getting out of the apartment might be best so he’s approaching Frank as quickly as he can, gently grasping his arm before pulling him away from the corner but Frank’s still not paying him any attention, eyes wild and fearful and watching. And then his thin fingers are wrapping around Gerard’s wrist instead, pulling until it’s painful, too much speed and Gerard is tripping over his own feet and still Frank’s pulling, heedless of Gerard, pulling.

 

            They’re out the door and passing the elevator until Frank’s pulling them both too quickly down the stairs and Gerard’s sure they’re going to stumble and break both of their necks; somehow Frank keeps both of them upright and they’re passing the main lobby and going deeper until they reach a door that reads ‘Basement’. There’s barely enough time to read it because Gerard didn’t even know his building had one before Frank’s pulling them through that door too, eyes searching swiftly around the room, releasing Gerard long enough to rush around the room, eyes looking wilder by the second. The small angel-boy is pushing a chair beneath the handle of the door before Gerard has enough sense to regain his voice.

 

            “Frank! What the fuck is going on? You’re scaring the shit out of me!” His voice is too high, the pitch all wrong, can’t stop the tremble at the end but the boy is finally looking at him; Gerard can’t help thinking that Frank seems to be glowing a bit in the din of the basement and how he just wants to wrap his arms around the boy whose still trembling with those too wide eyes and bright skin.

 

            Gerard knows that Frank is terrified out of his mind, can feel the fear coming off the boy in waves; he wants to be brave, wants to chase away whatever is scaring Frank, but he’s not sure what he’s supposed to fight against, isn’t sure he’s going to be able to fight against something that he can’t see, so he waits for some sort of explanation, pleading with his eyes, fingers rubbing comfortingly against the boys thin arms.

            Wrapping his fingers once again around Gerard’s wrist, he’s pulling the older boy into the corner of the room until they are half hidden behind some storage; Frank checks around the room once more, eyes swiftly checking every corner in the semi-darkness, listening intently for a moment more before seating himself against the wall, pulling Gerard with him.

 

            Gerard’s barely seated before Frank’s on his knees, green eyes searching his face, skeleton fingers following his eyes as though ensuring Gerard is unscathed; the boys brows are furrowed as he continues his inspection and Gerard is too shocked by the tingling beneath his skin at the boys touch to fully comprehend or question the action. Finally, seeming satisfied that Gerard is unharmed Frank resumes his seat, gaze never leaving the dark haired artists face. Both boys are begging and pleading and questioning, neither saying a word and the silence is eating them alive in the darkness of the basement.

 

            There’s hesitation written on the young angel’s face as he bites on the corner of his bottom lip, pulling and tearing at the red skin before trembling hands are reaching forwards, stopping just short of touching, pausing mid air before searching the older boys eyes for permission that’s granted immediately without knowing what is being requested. 

 

            Gerard knows the feel of Frank’s skin, relishes in it, has had more dreams about the experience than he would ever admit to anyone, but he’s completely unprepared when the boy-angel’s fingertips gently press into his temples, ill-equipped to deal with the jolt of electricity and the flash of his own face before his eyes and he’s throwing himself back against the wall, the concrete cool and tangible as he watches the hurt and apology in Frank’s eyes.

 

            “W-What was that?” Gerard has a good idea, can make a guess at the very least but his brain is telling him that it’s impossible and that this is yet another indication that he is in fact losing his mind.

 

            Frank’s Adams apple bobs nervously against his glimmering skin, distracting Gerard momentarily, before he’s shaking his dark hair out of his eyes, reprimanding himself and taking a deep breath, readdressing the trembling boy before him.

 

            “Sorry…I uh…can we try again?” Frank’s apologizing with his eyes, begging and pleading, and his fingers are lifting once again to press against Gerard’s clammy skin, cool and shaking and luminous.

 

            At his touch Gerard is powerless to stop the small gasp, his own body betraying him in the small tremble, senses heightened in the enclosed semi-darkness with the resplendent angel-boy whose almost enough to distract him from what they’re doing and the reason they are currently locked in the basement of his apartment building.

 

            Frank’s staring at him, uncertainty swimming in his eyes with something that looks like worry and adoration, and Gerard’s closing his eyes because staring at the boy for too long isn’t going to make this easier.

 

            There’s only darkness against the lids of his eyes for a moment and the bright flash of color blinds him, startles him enough to jerk instinctively back before the color is molding itself, flowing and stretching and shaping itself until Gerard recognizes his own face, his body coming slowly into focus and then Frank standing beside the picture of himself, face shining and smiling.

 

            The colors are rearranging themselves once again, creating new pictures, faces he doesn’t recognize, though there is a quality about that them that seems familiar. They’re all dressed in white, suits of the brightest white Gerard’s ever seen and that seems strange enough that he’s sidetracked for a moment, just observing the system of their movements, the fact that they’re sitting in a small circle, gesturing with hands and skin that’s bright and known and their lips are moving, forming words that he can’t hear; sound emerges slowly, like the dial is being turned up on a radio, and he can make out the words they’re uttering.

 

            “He knows Sariel. We need to take action.” The dark haired man thumps his fist against the table separating them to accentuate his point, his eyes dark and incensed, staring down each of the men seated at the table, before settling once more on the man he first addressed.

 

            “Hamaliel, bring to an end this rashness! Can you not see his logic?” Gerard is sure he can physically feel the fire of the glare that the dark haired man sends to the blonde who is gaping desperately, pleading with the group as Gerard gazes just as intently, unsure what he is witnessing, not comprehending the magnitude of the men before him or the situation which they discuss.

 

            “Anael, your judgment is defect. You cannot stand before this counsel and claim impartiality!” The dark haired man seems to growl in the brightness of the room and Gerard can’t help the small shiver that runs down his spine at the tension that crackles like lightening as the two men glower across the table.

 

            “Enough!” The man who was first addressed, Sariel, finally thunders and both men immediately lower their gaze. “It is my decision, and mine alone, what is to be done with Francis. Call him forth.” Gerard’s breath catches in his throat; constricted and tight at the sight of the petite boy walking through the dark doors he had not taken notice of before. 


	6. Sentencing

Small and bright and beautiful; it’s all Gerard can think as he watches the boy named Francis – his own angel-boy Frank – enter the room, familiar eyes nervous and wide and vivid, skin dazzling in the brightness of the room, of the company he is in.

 

            Throat thick as he continues to watch, he can’t help think how slight Frank is; Gerard knows this, but it seems accentuated in the brilliant room with these men dressed all in white, all staring at the boy standing before them. It’s then that Gerard really notices Frank’s lost appendages are intact – wings are folded neatly against his back – vivid white against his too pale skin. It’s distracting enough that Gerard almost misses the fact that Francis has continued moving, is standing directly before the circular table, quaking and staring and defiant.

 

            “Francis, you are brought before the counsel today so that we might decide what is to be done with you.” Sariel speaks to the trembling angel, his own eyes dark amidst skin that seems to glow as he stands, his presence enough to trigger Gerard’s own shuddering. “Have you anything to say in your own defense?” Gerard is itching to reach out, to touch the Frank of this vision-memory, to shield him from these men with their cold stares and their accusing glares, to yell and defend the angel-boy because Frank is still standing there, wide-eyed and silent.

 

            “I will take any punishment you see fit to bestow on me.” Gerard chokes, gaze whipping back to the small boy with the twittering wings, mystified and unbelieving; he’s been wondering for weeks what Frank’s voice would sound like, trying to judge from his laugh and the little noises that filter past those too red lips and he’s unprepared for the softness and the musical lilt.

 

            “You understand what this means, Francis? What you’ve done?” Sariel’s eyes are hardening but Francis – Frank – holds his ground, his eyes wide in his small face still but unrelenting and unapologetic as he glances around the small table before him, everyone but Sariel still seated and staring.

 

            “I understand.” Gerard doesn’t understand, **_can’t_** understand, has an overwhelming urge to jump through the apparition and shake Frank because surely he’s going to defend himself, going to fight for himself, isn’t he? Gerard wants to cry knowing he’s literally watching Frank give in, give up and there’s absolutely nothing he can do but continue to watch. His throat feels tight, his chest constricting and he can only vaguely feel the fallen angel’s fingertips against his temples, soft and cool against his too hot skin.

 

            “Very well, as Head of this Counsel, I sentence you, Francis, guardian angel, to a punishment befitting your crime.” Sariel looks down at the rest of the table for a moment, eyes resting fleetingly on Hamaliel and Anael before rising to Frank’s once again. “Your wings will be removed directly following the end of the sentencing. You will then be banished and sent to spend your remaining time on Earth, amongst and as a mortal in every sense. You are forbidden from returning. Ever.” Brows furrow as Sariel seems to contemplate Frank for a moment and Gerard can’t keep his eyes from the stubbornly trembling angel. “Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

 

            “I do not regret my decision. I believe that it is not I, but you, that has made the error. I hope that one day you can come to the same realization, but I will accept my punishment despite what I believe. It is your decision to make. I only beg once again that you spare him, that my punishment be enough to earn him reprieve.” Gerard’s sweeping his eyes over the scene again, watching the faces of the Counsel members blur until they’re just insubstantial colors; glancing back he barely has time to catch Frank’s face before it too is blurring before his eyes and the black of his eyelids is once again before him, the cool touch of Frank’s fingertips absent.

 

            He feels sick to his stomach, feels the bile boiling and bubbling in his chest and his throat and then his mouth and there’s only enough time to turn his head before he’s dispelling it on the concrete floor beside him, choking and gasping on the bitter liquid pouring from his lips. He can feel Frank’s cool skin, soothing, rubbing through his thin t-shirt, little titters and coos making the sickness so much worse. He wants to scream, rage, anything to avenge what Frank lost because all he can see is Frank’s wings being torn from him, ripped from his trembling body as he screams at the torture and the sick is still surging.

 

            When it feels like he’s in control again he takes a few calming breaths before spitting, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

 

            “Why Frankie? Why would you do that? Who the fuck was so important that you would lose your wings for them? Surely no one was worth that!” Gerard knows his voice is too loud in the dark emptiness of the basement with the sour smell of vomit washing over them but he can’t seem to control any aspect of his body. Frank stares sadly back at him, skin seeming to dim beneath Gerard’s anger, eyes darkening enough that Gerard can see flecks of brown that didn’t seem to exist just moments before.

 

            “Please! Answer me! I don’t understand!” There’s desperation and vitriol lacing every word, every shake of his body as he stands, towering above the angel-boy who gave up everything for someone and Gerard can’t comprehend, can’t fathom who or what could be so important, so valuable to Frank that he would give up everything, can’t imagine someone who would let him.

 

            Frank has no words, only pictures, memories and Gerard’s had enough of those, wants something more, wants understanding and answers; Frank uses the only other form of communication he has, the only other one Gerard can relate to.

 

            Standing, he leans into the taller boy, fingers trailing up his chest, cool skin soothing and calming a racing heart, lips open as eyes flutter shut out of instinct and for a moment they simply pass air between them, breathing in and out. And then Frank kisses him.

 

            It’s more than every other kiss they’ve shared, better and so much worse; it answers the question that Gerard so desperately needs, the one he’s begging for and Frank grants it with a soft moan and the fisting of Gerard’s shirt.

 

            Liquid fire is racing through Gerard’s veins, hurt and apology and bitterness chasing each other and he feels ill once more but his lips never leave the smaller boys, pressing him tight against the wall, encasing him within the confines of his body until he covers every inch. He wants to pull Frank into himself, wrap the smaller boy up inside of him so that he can keep him safe, but he just kisses him harder, groaning into his lips.

 

            Frank’s making little noises in the back of his throat, little moans and whimpers, pressing himself against Gerard, pulling and wrenching his little fingers at the older boys shoulders and hair, unable to attain sufficient purchase; Gerard’s having a difficult time keeping himself in check with the way Frank is grabbing at him, with the sounds escaping Frank’s lips as they attack his own.

 

            Gerard slips his lips away from the angel-boys, biting briefly at his jaw before trailing kisses down his neck to his collarbone where he nips for a moment or two, causing a soft groan from Frank. It’s enough of a distraction that Gerard is able to push himself, regretfully, away from the panting creature in front of him, eyeing the undone angel with the heaving chest, the plumped lips and the wide, pleading eyes staring over at him, still leaning into the wall he drove them against.

 

            “Shit…” His voice is rough, breathless, as they each try to regain their breathing. “We should stop…we shouldn’t do that, I mean, I really shouldn’t be doing this…you’re a fucking angel!” Frank’s cheeks flush deep scarlet, eyes betraying his insult at Gerard’s mutterings as the dark haired artist runs a hand anxiously across his face, leaning back against the wall behind him, desperate for some space, some air that doesn’t belong to the fallen angel with his big eyes and bright velvet skin.

 

            “I’m sorry Frankie…” He apologizes when he catches sight of the boys pained expression. “I didn’t…you-I-why would you do that?” He’s not sure what he’s referring to exactly, not sure that he’s expecting Frank to offer any sort of explanation, even if he could, but there’s a desperate need in his chest again, shaking his hands.

 

            “Why would you give up your wings for me?” 


	7. Farewells

Apparently the vision-memory projection takes its toll on the propeller, although Gerard had not been able to tell immediately with the way that Frank had attacked lips first immediately following. Still, the boy-angel spends the next week mostly laid in Gerard’s bed, pale, weak and sickly looking, leaving the older boy restless and without sleep in worry.

 

            It’s a challenging week for both men; Gerard has never been very proficient at taking care of himself, let alone another person, but there’s an undeniable pull towards protecting the smaller boy, wrapped up in every blanket Gerard can find and trembling beneath his fever. Frank barely has enough energy to open his eyes most days, wavering between consciousness and expelling stomach contents that aren’t replenished.

 

            Gerard’s contemplating, not for the first time in the past six days, whether he shouldn’t just take the fallen angel to the hospital and contend with the whimpers and scowls and pouting lips he receives every time the subject is approached; Frank is leaning over the side of the bed, dry heaving into a pot Gerard had brought in once the boy was too weak to make it to the bathroom. Rubbing circles on Frank’s back Gerard can feel the knots of his spine, could count each vertebrae as the boy shakes beneath the force of another cough.

 

            Sudden realization strikes Gerard like a punch to the gut and he’s grabbing Frank’s shoulders, pulling the smaller boy towards him, fingers prying into the sunken skin of his cheeks, eyes peering through the haziness clouding the dulling green.

 

            “Frank! Fuck! Are you dying?!” The indefinite shake of the small dark head and slight smirk might have gone unnoticed had Gerard not been staring so intensely; the sigh of relief that expels itself from between Gerard’s lips elicits a small giggle from Frank before yet another coughing fit and Gerard is smoothing and soothing and cooing again.

 

            Even after Frank is settled back into the bed, blankets wrapped securely around his shoulders and eyes closed, Gerard’s fingers are skating across his forehead, his cheeks, his neck and then back again, always touching and tracing and memorizing; anything to make contact with the angel’s skin that seems to, even in his weakened state, emanate some radiance that Gerard himself apparently doesn’t have. Of course, it doesn’t appear that anyone else does either. It’s a quality reserved for angels, even fallen ones ostensibly.

 

 

 

            Gerard’s developed a real quandary where Frank’s skin is concerned since their basement adventure; he can’t seem to stop touching it.

 

            Despite the fact that both of them have just returned from a haircut and a late lunch and that Mikey is due to arrive in less than 10 minutes, Gerard’s fingers are lazily dragging across the satin expanses, the angel’s eyes having fluttered shut minutes ago as Gerard traced over the tattoos painted across his skin.

 

            Gerard knows he needs to change out of his t-shirt and jeans combination, knows that he needs to prepare for his interview, perhaps put some last minute touches on his portfolio; the lure of Frank’s skin beneath his own callused fingers keeps him locked to the couch and wrapped around the smaller boy.

 

            The knock on the door snaps both from the reverie, Frank jumping from Gerard’s embrace to run to the door, looking through the small peep hole before ripping open the door, little face wide in his excitement, eyes and skin and teeth bright even in the semi-darkness of the apartment.

 

            “Hey Frankie!” Laughing awkwardly, Mikey wraps his arms around the shoulders of the fallen angel who’s launched his small body at the lithe form of the visitor. “Gerard.” The offered nod is accompanied by a raise the younger brothers eyebrows at the state of Gerard’s clearly unprepared state, still lounging, although now uncomfortably, on the couch, having been abandoned.

 

            Scowling, Mikey untangles himself from Frank’s limbs, making his way towards his brother before placing himself with more grace than Gerard has ever managed, into the seat across.

 

            “What time’s your interview?” There’s no preamble, no warm greetings from the younger Way as he folds his long arms across his chest.

 

            Gerard knows he’s in trouble, knows that even as the younger sibling Mikey has always been the more responsible, the one taking care of _him_ and he can’t help the slight blush that covers his cheeks, the way the guilt makes him want to melt into the couch to escape the glare of disapproval that Mikey’s shooting his way.

 

            “Let’s go.” Once again there’s no need for anything more than Mikey’s directions as both Gerard and Frank follow the taller man into the shared room, even Frank’s exultant mood dimmed beneath Mikey’s obvious displeasure, following the siblings silently.

 

            It takes only twenty minutes for Gerard to be showered and dressed, his clothes having been laid out by Mikey, Frank helping pick out his shirt and shoes under Mikey’s guidance as the Gerard washed quickly beneath a spray that barely warmed his pale skin and then Mikey is pulling a twittering angel-boy out of the room by his arm, insisting that Gerard needs to get dressed and is perfectly capable of doing so by himself; Gerard can’t help feeling like a teenager once again.

 

             And then he’s standing in the hallway, twirling slightly before his brother and angel, sweat already building beneath the sleeves and collar of his black dress shirt, nerves and anticipation too high in his throat and Mikey is pushing at his shoulder, urging him towards the door as he struggles with his coat.

 

            “Gee, it’s fine! God, Frank and I are just gonna sit here and watch the Halloween marathon, ok?”

 

            “I know Mikey, I just –” He knows he’s being a bit ridiculous, it’s only a few short hours that he’s going to be in the City and his little brother is more than capable of staying with Frank during that time – Mikey’s probably going to be better at it than Gerard is, but he can’t help the feeling in the pit of his stomach, the ache in his chest at the thought.

 

            “No excuses. Get the hell out.” Gerard can’t help the backwards glance into the living room where Frank is standing just inside the doorway, eyes wide within his still pale face. Gerard swallows hard against what he imagines might be causing that look, taking a deep breath before smiling up at the two most important people in his life.

 

            “Ok. I’ll be back soon.” His fingers are grasping the handle of his bag, hoisting it onto his arm before pulling open the door, Mikey’s fingers against the shoulder of his coat. “Please watch him, okay? He’s still not feeling great…” He appreciates the smile that his brother offers him and the squeeze of reassurance and he tries not to make eye contact with Frank as he shouts a final farewell before Mikey finally manages to drive him out the door.


	8. Visitors

There’s something in the way that the glass fits so easily within his grasp, cool and filthy and wrong. So wrong. He can taste it on his tongue as he pours the bitter liquid down his throat, swallowing against the bite and as much as he desperately wants to stop, he emphatically nods his head in acceptance of another fill.

 

            He’s lost count of the number of times he has emptied the glass, lost sight of the angelic face that swims before his blurred vision, lost the job he hadn’t allowed himself to believe he wanted. Failure and loss and disappointment; it’s all too much to stop himself from downing another shot, wiping the bitterness from his lips before resting his chin upon his upturned palm, contemplating his newest employment fiasco.

 

            A snort escapes him as he remembers the words the director had candidly belayed to him, expressing apparent regret as he informed Gerard that the artwork was “not quite what they were looking for, however much talent it was clear he had.” Bullshit. 

 

            There’s some holes in his memory, eagerly filling themselves with the astringent liquid, but he remembers dragging himself out of the building and holing up in the first bar he found, feeling wholly unwelcome and yet completely comfortable in the dank and squalid establishment, content to drink himself into the background of life. Downing another shot he can’t help the soiled smirk that says he’s well on his way.

 

            The dingy bar helps dissipate the tightness in his throat, the sting beneath his eyes and the pretty little face that swims through his thoughts. The darkness makes the time fly by, the only account realized in the number of empty glasses he can claim.

 

 

            It’s a good hour into the third Halloween movie, just as Michael Myers is slicing into another victim, that Mikey first notices that something is amiss with the trembling boy beside him. He considers that it could be simply out of fear, taking into account their choice of programming, however, the angel had happily sat through the first two movies, chirping and giggling his way through each bloody scene, so Mikey rules out that option, turning his body towards Frank, alarmed at the paleness of his skin; slight sweat broken out on his forehead and neck as he shakes, wide eyed and staring at the screen and Mikey might just have mistaken it for engrossment.

 

            “Hey, Frankie? You okay?” He’s hesitant to touch the angel, unsure if that’s allowed exactly, but Gerard seems to handle it without determent and Frank had thrown himself into Mikey earlier in welcome; fingers barely brush the bare skin of shoulder before the boy-angel is launching himself across the couch, back pressed painfully into the corner of the room, eyes bright and fearful and too wide in a face that seems to be getting paler by the second.

 

            “Frank? What’s going on? You’re freaking me out a bit here…” Mikey tries to keep his voice even, the fear at bay beneath what he hopes is a calm exterior, even if he can feel it tearing at the edges. The sight of the dark haired youth straining into the corner of the room, shaking with those wide staring eyes is enough to make Mikey dig into the pocket of his jeans, pulling his phone out and dialing quickly, eyes never leaving the trembling boy across the room.

 

            It takes three failed attempts before he’s cursing his brothers name as he tosses the phone into the abandoned cushions of the couch and making his way across the room, eyes still trained on the boy before him.

 

            It’s in vain that he tries to swallow against the lump in his throat, the fear of the unknown making his own chest feel tight and constricted beneath his hoodie, his fingers trembling at his sides.

 

            He tries to decipher what Frank is staring so intently at, only now noticing the slight moving of his lips as if he’s conversing silently with someone, the knowledge somehow failing to console.

 

            “Frankie?” Mikey’s trembling travels from his hands, up his arms, filtering its way into the rest of his body as the boy continues to stare straight ahead with too wide eyes and the silent conversation Mikey can’t make out. “Frank, you’re scaring the shit out of me dude…”

 

            The scream that rips its way through the silence, past Frank’s lips and assaults Mikey’s ears is enough that he loses the feeling in his legs, dropping to his knees before the boy whose eyes are clamped tightly shut as the impossible sound passes past his parted lips. Mikey desperately fights the urge to clamp his hands over his ears, fights the desire to run or perhaps to join in, barely suppressing his fear beneath concern for the angel whose dropped to the ground before him, writhing on the hardwood, small body thrashing against the pain.

 

            Expletives escape past Mikey as he struggles towards the undersized youth, twisting and straining against some force that only he seems to see or understand, the scream of obvious pain still ripping from him, blood too bright, false, against his pale skin and Mikey barely forms a thought that perhaps he’s having some sort of strange seizure before silence envelopes the apartment once again. If not for the fact that Frank is still on the floor breathing hard and the ringing in his own ears, Mikey might actually question his sanity.

 

            It feels as though his very bones are trembling beneath his skin as he stares in fear and desperation and confusion at the equally shocked boy before him, though his elusive eyes stay focused elsewhere.

 

            The crack of the front door sends Mikey scrambling to his feet, the sound too loud in the deafening silence, like cotton balls being ripped from ears.

 

            The sight of Gerard struggling to pull his keys from the front door, barely managing to maintain his balance and giggling as he presses himself into the wall to steady himself, sends Mikey into a rage; he wants to attack his brother, wants to throw him into a wall or perhaps just hug him because he’s never been so scared or angry or relieved to see someone. It’s in the moments when Mikey is deciding what action to take that Gerard looks over and spots his brother trembling and Frank still on the ground, chest heaving and gasping like he can’t breathe that he drops his keys to the ground, pushing himself away from the wall precariously.

 

            “What the fuck happened?” He bypasses the younger Way, dropping inelegantly to his knees before the still shaking and gasping and pale angel-boy who hasn’t moved in the past minutes, staring at the ceiling as though in desperation. Gerard’s fingers immediately fit themselves into the grooves of Frank’s cheeks, smoothing the damp skin, before wiping at blood beneath his nose, the red mockingly bright. He feels like he might choke, like he can’t breathe as he continues to stare at the blood coating his own fingers now and there’s more than terror as he moves to rake his fingers through Frank’s hair as he lifts the limp boy from the floor, tightening his hold as he pulls the wilting body to his chest and he’s staring, hopeless, at his brother, imploring him to weigh in on the situation but Mikey’s still staring at the boy in his arms wordless and terrified.

 

            Gerard pulls Frank from his chest; feeling as though he’s holding a doll or perhaps a dead body instead of the angel-boy, anguish pulling at his features, his chest and throat too tight in the small apartment, breath mingling with the broken gasps that indicate Frank’s animation.

 

            “Frankie? What happened? Are you okay?” The angel continues staring helplessly at the ceiling, unaware of Gerard’s presence, unresponsive to his touch or voice and Gerard doesn’t know what to do except pull the small limp body from the floor and place him in bed, wrapping the blankets around him and kissing his forehead, whispering reassurance and apologies as one large, fat droplet frees itself from the spidery cage of the broken angels dark eyelashes and cuts a jagged path down his blanched cheek. Hesitant fingers brush it away before stepping into the hallway where Mikey is pressing into the wall, still trembling and breathing hard enough to induce a panic attack.

 

            No words are spoken as Gerard brews coffee for the brothers, his own hands unsteady beneath the alcohol and the fear. Mikey hovers in the doorway of the kitchen, wringing his thin fingers, his eyes averted and darting though he seems reluctant to leave Gerard’s sight.

 

            Handing the youngest Way the cup of bitter liquid Gerard doesn’t know where to start, can physically feel the fear washing off his brother, can feel the way it’s choking him. They drink the blistering substance in silence, both absorbed in their own fear and confusion, until Gerard finally clears his constricted throat, placing his mug onto the counter with more force than he intended.

 

            “Mikey…I-” Words abandon Gerard, leaving him floundering in panic for a moment until he’s able to calm himself enough to continue. “What happened?” He can sense his forged calm slipping, fear clawing at his mirage of control as he contemplates the possibilities.

 

            Mikey avoids his eyes, hands wrapped too tightly around his own mug, knuckles white against the strain. “There was something here Gee…” His voice is barely loud enough to hear but the words seem to reverberate in Gerard’s scull. “Something was hurting him…” 

 

\----

Thoughts on what's going on? Who's hurting Frank?

Let me hear ya! 

 

 

Cheers

Kat


	9. Admission

Gerard knows that he needs to inhale, needs to intake some new air, some oxygen, even knows that the way his vision is blurring slightly isn’t something that is beneficial to the situation right now, but there’s some sort of obstruction in his throat, something keeping the air from his lungs and despite his best efforts he can feel his grip on the present slipping through his fingers.

 

            The sting burning through his left cheek as his head snaps away from the offending hand doling out his punishment produces a gasp of pain and surprise, dislodging the obstruction as oxygen surges down his throat; he feels greedy in his attempts to fill his lungs once again after their brief deprivation.

 

            “Snap out of it Gee.” Mikey’s voice in harsh in the silence of the apartment, his eyes still filled with fear, but edged with something harder. “We don’t have time for you to fall apart…we need to figure out what the fuck is going on.” Gerard wants to thank his brother, offer some warm appreciation although his features form themselves into a scowl, which directs itself at Mikey, and his lips remain pressed tightly together, breathing heavily through his nose. All he can think about is drowning. He’s craving another drink, wants the pungent liquor filling him, coursing through his veins, he wants to drown in it, wants it to wash it all away.

 

            Mikey’s angry growl echoes through the small bright kitchen, pulling Gerard’s eyes from the off-white stained linoleum counter. “Where the fuck were you Gerard? I tried calling when…when it started. I tried calling you and you didn’t answer! I needed you. Fuck! Frank needed you!” He’s coursing his fingers through his hair, making the ends stand up momentarily from their place flat against his scull and then he’s pressing his glasses further up his nose, agitated and confused.

 

            Gerard wants to ignore the accusations, wants to shove his younger brother out of the apartment, wants to snuggle into the warmth of his fallen angel, wants to drown himself in alcohol and perhaps something stronger, wants to close his eyes and never open them again. Instead, he offers a roll of his eyes as though thoroughly affronted by Mikey’s heated questions.

 

            “I was at an interview asshole.” The lie slips past his lips easily, alcohol and misplaced anger make it easy to avoid guilt, though he catches a glimpse of Mikey’s narrowed eyes, brows furrowed in disbelief as he continues. “It ran over time.”

 

            “By four hours?” The incredulity in Mikey’s voice scratches at his older brothers conscience slightly. “What’d, they have you start working already? Did you get the job?” As much as he wants to continue with his anger, wants to still perhaps even punch Gerard, Mikey can’t help the fact that he still wants Gerard to have succeeded; the pout that settles itself on his pale face is enough of an answer.

 

            “They said that my work was too complicated…” There’s a need stirring in Mikey to console his older brother, to offer some sort of condolence for his obvious sorrow, his fingers actually itch to reach out; he stuffs them below each of his thighs to repress the need. “Said I had obvious talent but that they didn’t understand what I was trying to say…” Gerard doesn’t look up from the table he’s returned his gaze to, scowling into its depths.

 

            “Where’d you go after that?” The question is posed with less anger, less volume, more sympathy and Gerard can’t help the defeated sigh that passes through his lips as his head drops to folded arms.

 

            “A bar…” The admission is almost muffled beneath his arms, the guilt finally pouring into his veins like poison, and it burns like fire as it infiltrates its newest victim.

 

            “Fuck Gee…” The heavy sigh speaks volumes, divulging more than either brother is willing to speak aloud. “I thought you were trying to quit?” It’s more of statement than question and the eldest Way doesn’t have enough energy to warrant a response, closing his eyes against the kitchen lighting that suddenly seems to bright, to intrusive to his burning eyes and veins and throat.

 

            It’s as though the minute action is too much for Mikey, the breaking point in a night filled with too many things he doesn’t understand and can’t control. He can’t grasp the way Gerard simply lies there, seemingly oblivious and uncaring; it pushes buttons the younger Way didn’t realize existed and his feet are propelling him from his chair anger fuelling him as he rounds the counter, bristling in anger.

 

            “What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?” There’s desperation and anger and fear in his veins searching for some release and spewing venom at his brother seems conceivable enough. “You know what? Fuck you.” Fingers are pulling through his hair again. “I feel like I don’t even know you anymore! All you care about is that fucking alcohol and I thought that maybe, with Frank now, shit would be different, but it’s not! You’re still pulling this shit like you don’t care!” His voice is steadily rising to a pitch where it cracks, throat too dry beneath the poison and Gerard is staring, wide eyed and he just continues, arms flailing in the too small kitchen. “Well fuck you! If you don’t care, then neither do I! I’m fucking done! You do whatever you want, I’m out!”

 

            He’s angry enough to walk out, to slam the door with enough force to break, or at least jam the hinges, but the burning-choking in his throat and eyes seems to have affected his legs too, seizing the muscles so all he can do is glare at Gerard who is still seated before him, eyes too big in his pale face.

 

            Mikey can feel his hands trembling by his sides, his skin vibrating beneath the anger, hardly dissipated despite his tirade just seconds before, but the kitchen is silent beneath the unbroken stare of brothers.

 

            “I think…fuck, I don’t even know, but I feel like, maybe, I might be falling for him or something…fuck…”And Gerard’s admission sounds completely and utterly wrecked, his voice hollow and vacant and hoarse as it rattles through his throat, his eyes bleary and tired in the brightness of a kitchen that’s feeling more like a cage by the second. 


	10. Realization

Brilliantly pale skin drenched in the soft moonlight escaping the prison of curtains, bright against the darkened hue of the sheets and the rogue strands of hair that drape themselves across his forehead; it’s enough to incur trembling in the man standing in the doorway, his eyes greedily devouring the sight before him like it might be his last.

 

            He doesn’t know how long he stands in the shadows, observing and memorizing but the slumbering boy shifts, lifting his dark head from the pillow as he takes in his own surroundings. And still Gerard doesn’t move, scared to disturb the serenity and perfection of the scene before him, anxious that he’s spoiled it already. His resolve breaks when the tears brim and breach the cage of Frank’s dark lashes, spilling over onto his cheeks, staining his skin.

 

            “Frankie, please…just…please just tell me what I can do!” His voice is quiet in the darkness, desperation lacing every word as he pleads. “We can get away from here! I’ll take you somewhere else, anywhere; just tell me what you want! I don’t know how to help you!” There are tears in his own throat and his eyes and he’s too tired to blink them away, frightened enough to let them to be seen.

 

            There are dark circles beneath the angel-boys eyes, testament enough of what he’s been through, his skin bright still below the tears and the molted bruises marring and confusing as they twist and curl amidst the inky velvet.

 

            Frank has no words to offer Gerard, they both know this; his forehead is creased as though he is in pain, fists curling into the sheets with the effort. His eyes sweep the dark room, frantic and hopeless, head thumping against the hardwood of the headboard as his eyes squeeze shut, shaking fingers pulling through sleep-muddled hair.

 

            “I don’t know how to protect you Frankie…” The admission brings the clear green eyes of the angel to Gerard’s face, fingers reaching for him in the darkness and Gerard is helpless to resist. His feet find their way to the bed, body sinking into the yielding cushion and Frank’s hands are shaping themselves into the grooves of his skin as though they belong there, brushing away strands of hair that threaten to obscure his view.

 

            Gerard’s barely keeping his burning eyes from betraying him as Frank’s skeleton fingers flutter across his cheekbones, eyes staring too wide and too bright and too vulnerable in the darkness of the room; a barely suppressed sigh escapes his lips at the cool touch sweeping down his neck, eyes wavering shut reluctantly. He wants to proclaim love and adoration or perhaps something equally as eloquent and substantial but his throat feels like it’s being squeezed too tight, like he might choke if he even tried so he’s just staring, skin vibrating beneath the cool fingers exploring, desperate and wanting in the darkness of his bedroom.

 

            He’s unprepared, as always, for the feel of velvet lips against his own, the cool exhale of breath and fingers that still momentarily, eyes fleetingly enlarged in his surprise before he’s clamping them shut, hands shaking as they fit themselves against Frank’s small waist. It feels, as it constantly seems to, like the angel-boy is trying to tell Gerard something, like he might be expressing some universal truth or perhaps a proclamation similar to Gerard’s, his kiss sweet and urging and sad. The taste of salt tears permeating the space between their lips only makes Gerard press harder against his fallen angel, fingers wrapping more firmly around him, frantic and overwhelmed with urgency.

 

            Whispered apologies are falling from his lips between kisses, fingers still anxiously gripping and pulling and kneading their path across Frank’s small back, skin glowing beneath Gerard in the moonlight.

 

            Gerard can’t recall shifting above Frank, doesn’t remember when legs wrapped themselves around his back to pull him closer, but the coolness of the bare skin pressed against his chest can’t disguise the sweat pooling against his collarbone and spine or the way his heart is hammering frantic in his ears when his tongue makes contact with Frank’s.

 

            The tears that are still tracking their way down Frankie’s luminous cheeks should be enough for Gerard to stop, to scramble across the bed, and give himself some space to breathe, to collect his thoughts, but the keening-panting coming from the boy beneath him is engrossing, brain fizzing and hazy enough to distract stronger men; strong enough that he stops trying and presses harder into the angel below him.

 

            Harder and more firmly, wrapping his body as securely around Frank as he can, trying to press every inch of their bodies together until there can be no hope for separation.

 

            They’re gasping in the darkness, breathe mingling, cool and heated, fingers pulling and still they’re not close enough, lips bruising as they crash teeth first.

 

            The moan that slips through Gerard is too loud in the silence that had only been broken by the rustle of sheets and their panted breathe, disturbing the isolation and shelter of Frank’s skin. Gerard’s eyes are wide above the boy-angel whose still panting and biting at his swollen lips, bright eyes too big and innocent and seductive in his pale face and Gerard is pulling himself away because another moment spent touching is going to be his ultimate downfall and surely even a fallen angel is still considered off-limits to a mere human; especially him.

 

             Frank’s expression makes him regret his decision instantly.

 

            “Fuck…” His voice sounds wrecked, hoarse and broken in the dark. He doesn’t know what else to say, how to console Frank as he stares from his prone position before him, unmoving despite Gerard’s abrupt departure. He swallows hard feeling cold without his shirt and Frank’s skin.

 

            “I’m sorry Frankie…I-” His fingers pull at the strands of his hair, sweeping roughly across his face before falling to the sheets once again, restless and uncomfortable. And still Frank simply lies before him, staring wide-eyed.

 

            “It’s just, I mean, you…well, I wanted…Jesus Christ!” Gerard regrets immediately his outburst as Frank’s eyes enlarge impossibly, the gasp past his lips before he can cover them with his fingers. “Oh shit! I’m sorry Frankie! Fuck!” He can’t help the desperation in his bones and blood, the helplessness that keeps threatening to overtake him.

 

            “I’m sorry. I keep fucking shit up no matter what I do…” And the want is back strong enough to make him tremble. He wants the burn and blur and the bitter taste and he wants it now. Needs it. And Frank’s still looks at him with those eyes like he might be his hero and mostly Gerard just want to cry.

 

            He’s looking anxious and despairing, he knows, sort of glaring around the room as if he expects it to create a solution for him, and for a moment or two it does. He needs the distraction from Frank and his skin and the drink because he wants both enough that it hurts. Knowing he can’t have either hurts worse.

 

            And so, they sit in silence for a while, Gerard staring around the room, averting his eyes from Frank’s bare chest, the way that it rises and falls, the way that sliver of moonlight seems to illuminate his every inch of skin until it glows, the way that his breathe sends goosebumps along Gerard’s bare arms. And Gerard remembers why he came in to begin with, what he hoped to achieve tonight and it’s a much better distraction than trying to avoid eye contact.

 

            “It’s, I mean, the attacks…they’ve happened three times, right?” Gerard dives right in, no preamble, intent on his questions and the answers he believes are just out of reach. He accepts the little nod of Frank’s head, green eyes now trained on his knees as they curl into his chest, arms wrapped protectively around them. “Ok…” There’s a realization, some sudden understanding resting on the edges, taunting and dancing just out of reach; Gerard knows not to push, he’s an artist. He contents himself, for the briefest moment, with watching Frank from beneath the curtain of his hair, fingers and skin itching to touch the boy before him, to again wrap his arms around him. He resists, just barely, pressing his hands firmly against the bed sheets beneath his thighs, once again physically restraining himself.

 

            He wonders briefly what their life would be like if Frank could speak, if he might ever regain the ability or if he lost that along with his wings forever. The train of thought has him once again marveling over the fact that an **angel** gave up his wings for **him** ; it confuses Gerard, still, pulls at his insecurities when he thinks too long on it.

 

            “Oh fuck…” His words come out breathless and terrified, as comprehension hits him, full on the chest, like it was just sitting on the edges of consciousness, it’s staggering and yet there is no doubt of it’s truth. He doesn’t know what triggered the realization, and he feels completely unprepared for the way it’s slamming it’s certainty into him; dizzy and nauseous. Meeting Frank’s wide eyes, he knows the angel is waiting for him to elaborate. “It’s the alcohol, isn’t it?”

 

            There’s so much sadness in the look Frank offers Gerard doesn’t need any superfluous words. He feels sick as the realization continues to sink in, scenes of the attacks playing before his eyes, images of Frank writhing on the ground beneath the blood; the escaping tears choke and suffocate.

 

            “Oh god…” He can’t meet Frank’s eyes, shame and disgust pulling him up from the bed and away from the innocence he’s been abolishing. “This is all my fault…you tried to help me and all I’ve done is hurt you.” There’s bile and sick in his throat, rising and boiling and bitter and he can’t get to the toilet fast enough, tears and snot and vomit.

 

            The hand rubbing soothing circles against his spine only causes him to heave again, hacking and coughing into the cold porcelain, his skin burns and his bones feel brittle like they might fragment within him; he hopes they puncture something vital. 

\-----

Thoughts? 

 

Cheers

Kat


	11. Sacrifice

The realization that he’s unprepared for the depth of suffering that was to ensue from something so insignificant as a promise hits Gerard like a ton of bricks. Travelling in a speeding truck, driven by a sadistic motherfucker who hates him.

 

The physical and mental torture that is his vow of sobriety to the broken angel was only now rising to the surface, racing through his veins, clouding his vision and thoughts with increasing intensity.

 

            Pouring out each of the bottles contents had been child’s play, the relief immediate and bright as he drank in Frank’s obvious delight and approval instead of the bitter alcohol. The long moments that follow, when he catches a scent on the wind from down the street, or across the hall, or something lingering on one of his unwashed shirts, the feeling of absolute terror and insanity seizes him in a fit that he can’t fight off. And the moments seem to be coming more and more frequently and with far more clout than he feels capable of repelling.

 

            He’s cradling his head within the cage of his arms, backed up into the corner of his dark bedroom, eyes closed, breathing raggedly through his nose when Frank returns from his shower, all bright skin and eyes and teeth and Gerard knows he looks an absolute mess by comparison.

 

            The dark bags beneath his eyes are purple against his insipid skin, the sick feeling in his stomach arising from the absolute lack of sleep for the past week, and still his lips curl upwards at the sight before him as Frank towel dries his hair, unaware of the way that Gerard’s eyes follow his every movement, desperate and wanting and anxious.

 

            Gerard doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants, can’t remember ever having asked before, just taken. He knows that Frank’s different though, wants him to be, wants this to be something special and memorable and sober, but he doesn’t know how to ask. So he’s sitting, breathing out of his mouth because the smell of clean-angel-Frank is too tempting when Gerard’s sure his head is going to explode.

 

            Part of the problem is that Frank seems to have absolutely no reservations or sense of modesty and Gerard has little or no restraint, especially where Frank is concerned, leaving Gerard to lock himself in the bathroom after rushing out a room inhabited by the too often partially clothed or fully naked angel-boy.

 

            Gerard’s grinding his teeth, hands clenched, nails digging into his palms as he does his best to keep his eyes politely averted at the far wall or the floor or the ceiling. It feels as though while dodging the view his hearing has suddenly improved ten-fold; every rustle of the towel, the way it crumples against the hardwood, the swish of the sweatpants that Frank commandeered as his own, and Gerard’s convinced, the slow drip drop of water as it slides down skin or off of hair and onto hardwood. It’s some new form of torture that only a God could imagine and Gerard knows that he’s barely maintaining his tenuous composure, shaking against the tension in his muscles, holding him to the wall behind him.

 

            He can’t breathe, feels like his throat is closing on him, like his body is giving up on him, his heart stuttering out a too fast staccato against his ribs that has him wondering if it’s making a bid for escape.

 

            The soft wet pad of feet has Gerard pressing harder and more firmly into the corner of the wall, chest too tight and sore, eyes still clamped shut and he wants nothing more than to perhaps melt into the dark paint, wishes he was invisible or blessed with some other superpower than might allow him out of this situation.

 

            The cool breath against his face feels surprising despite the fact that he had felt Frank’s presence, heard the soft creak of his knees as he crouched down beside Gerard, could smell the flowery pink shampoo he kept insisting Gerard purchase for him, always shoving the bottle into the cart so that they had several stockpiled under the sink.

 

            He knows the feel of Frank’s skin, the cool smoothness of silk, unblemished and perfect against his own. Gerard doesn’t, can’t, fight the insistent pressure of Frank’s hand, letting himself be pulled in towards the angel-boy, needing this again and again and again, more than he should. Frank’s lips meet his, soft and cool and satin, and he’s licking into Gerard’s mouth without warning, swallowing up the moans that slip, panting back in return; hot and wet and wanting.

 

            Gerard sinks into Frank, pressing against his bare skin, eyes squeezed shut and sucking desperate breath through his nose as their lips continue to slide against each other. Frank tastes like stolen cigarettes and cold, sweet and sin and Gerard wants more, wants everything, wants it now.

 

            His fingers are shaking as they grip into Frank’s wet hair, weaving digits, desperate and needy when the boy groans at the slight pull. There’s nothing beyond the absolute rightness of their mouths fitting together, pulling and slipping and clashing. Frank’s hands are recklessly roaming, grabbing any skin they can find, bony fingers pushing Gerard’s black t-shirt up, a slight growl escaping satin lips when the shirt catches. And then they’re two shirtless boys, panting and red-faced and wanting.

 

            Gerard doesn’t know who moved first, doesn’t know anything except that there was a moment where they were separate, untouching, and then suddenly they were pressed together tight enough to confuse limbs and breath and he doesn’t know who moved first, but he doesn’t really care either.

 

            There’s a part of him, a small part of his brain, that’s whispering admonishment, cursing his behavior and the corruption he’s partaking in. The moans and stifled gasps and keening noises escaping Frank wind their way into Gerard, filling him, suffocating him and he can’t get enough, can’t remember what the voices were saying.

 

            Frank’s in his lap now, pressing cool skin against Gerard, shifting infinitesimally, enough though, enough to have Gerard groaning into the smoothness of Frank’s neck, hands shaking against the restraint that is quickly disappearing in the wake of the fallen-angel’s sudden confidence. He’s so fucking hard behind his zipper, and it’s too much and it’s not nearly enough, not even close.

 

            “Frankie…Frankie” He doesn’t know why his fingers are pressing into Frank’s shoulders, pushing the angel away, doesn’t remember moving them from tiny hips, but bright eyes are blinking up at him, as though waking up, wide and curious and confused and Gerard has no explanation.

 

He keeps pushing at skeletal shoulders until they’re two separate people again. With an apologetic shake of his head he retreats to the bathroom.

 

***

 

It's easy to convince himself that the real harm occurs because he loses control, not the actual act itself, and so, it's perfectly acceptable for him to have a drink, just a small one, just a gulp or two to ease the edge of complete abstinence. That's what he tells himself when he paws through the cardboard box labeled "attic", procuring the hidden bottle. It's what he's murmuring as he sinks into the cool darkness of the closet, away from bright eyes, the clothes protectively swaying above him as he backs into the darkest corner, gingerly twisting the cap before taking in the first sweet inhale.

 

And he's lost.

 

The bite and burn and sting of the first gulp is not enough, not nearly, and he's pulled back three more before he screws the cap back on resolutely, sighing at the welcome and familiar buzz that starts almost immediately. His head rests comfortably wedged into the corner, eyes closing as his lips curl upwards, the feeling of pride, relishing his restraint, enough to sate him for another couple minutes in the darkness.

 

The scream that rips through the walls has him up and flying through the wooden doors with more speed than he thinks he's capable of, and still it's not enough because he knows that scream and he can only imagine what caused it.

 

Skidding across the hardwood of the hallway, there's too much momentum, sending him flying into the cabinets that line the wall of the living room, his footing lost as his hip connects loudly. There's no time to assess his own pain or damage because what lies before him is so much worse than he could have imagined.

 

Blood. So much blood. Bright and red and glistening. It's the scene of a murder, except for the cries for help, the moans of agony that seem to reverberate in Gerard's skull locking his limbs and gaze in place momentarily.

 

Frank's writhing on the floor, whimpering now as the blood continues to flow as though in a race to exit his small body. He's covered in it, skin too pale beneath the bright red, eyes clamped shut against the pain. And then Gerard's rushing forwards again, dropping to his knees before the boy covered in his own blood, tears and apologies already falling from him and he knows that it'll never be enough because **he** did this to Frank. **_He_** tried to kill Frank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only one more chapter until you're all caught up with my LJ account!  
> What did you think? Who/what do you think is hurting Frank? Let me hear ya!! 
> 
>  
> 
> Cheers  
> Kat


	12. Bath Water

The blood seems endless, soaking into all of the towels and Gerard’s clothes and his skin and his hands are shaking so badly beneath the ceaseless red that he’s sure he’s more hindrance than help at the moment. He knows he should have called an ambulance, but the need to protect, to hide Frank had seemed too overpowering in the moment and now it seems almost too late to remedy, so he’s pressing his last clean towel against the boy, monitoring the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the painful grimace of his forehead.

 

            He doesn’t know what to say, knows it should be something, remembers vaguely in television shows and movies that they always try to keep the victims talking, assure them, ask them questions to assist in assessing the situation and the severity, but what’s the normal protocol for someone who can’t answer you back?

 

            “Frankie? I need you to look at me, I need to check your pupils.” He remembers paramedics telling him that once and thinks maybe it’s an important indicator of something, but Frank’s still clenching his eyes, oblivious beneath his pain, lips trembling as a tear slips past his dark lashes, a clear river sliding jaggedly across a bloodstained cheek, war-torn and desolate and beautiful as Gerard’s heart slams painfully against his rib cage; he isn’t entirely sure what he should be looking for anyways.

 

            He doesn’t know what else to do with Frank and his injuries, with all the blood, knows that there’s gauze and other first aid items stored away in the bathroom on Mikey’s insistence and dollar, but the thought of leaving Frank seems too daunting. Wrapping the towel more firmly around his small body, Gerard swallows hard, reaching below the prone body before him, trying to lift as gingerly as possible, cringing at the moan of pain that slips from the angel.

 

            The bathtub seems the most logical, if not the most comfortable location; Gerard does his best to line the sides with more towels and blankets, heedless of the fact that the damage to his entire linen closet is irreparable, before easing Frankie in, wary of the seeping blood and the way the angel’s eyes are fluttering, the way his body goes limp within Gerard’s arms.

 

            Frank’s finally unconscious from the pain, breathing steady and even, face relaxed from pain, the tears and moans of agony held at bay for the moment at least; Gerard can’t help feeling grateful for the reprieve as he eases the towels away from Frank’s body, careful to avoid any unnecessary pain, his own forehead creased in concentration with the task at hand, breathing shallow and loud against the linoleum and ceramic.

 

            He can’t remember ever being so scared for someone in his life; not even that time Mikey had the asthma attack where he had needed to be rushed to the hospital. Mikey had maintained consciousness and the paramedics and their mother had been quick and efficient and eager to assure Gerard. There’s no one to offer any comfort or consolation to Gerard now.

 

            He considers running to call Mikey now, leaving his comatose angel in the bathtub for his baby brother to deal with, hiding away in a corner and letting someone else take responsibility; it’s a familiar option, one he’s employed before and he knows Mikey would come. Mikey always comes; Mikey’s the responsible one, not Gerard.

 

            He shakes his head angrily to ward off the notions of escape, grinding his teeth together to cement his resolve before huffing out a quick breath.

 

            “Frankie needs you. Don’t fuck this up.” It’s not much as far as pep-talks go, but it’s the best he can conjure up as he begins unsticking the towels and cloth from the blood-sodden skin of his angel, careful and meticulous in a way he usually only is with a pencil in his hand.

 

            There’s still blood everywhere, covering everything; it’s impossible to identify where it’s all coming from. He does his best to clean the boys’ skin with warm water, drenching himself and the floor in the process, too focused on Frank, on the way the red swims around them, spreading out and seeping into the cracks, curling and stretching and twisting. It’s never ending, layer upon layer, and Gerard can’t believe that it’s all come from the small body before him because it’s too much, far too much.

 

            He keeps wiping until he can decipher the wounds. The tearing, grotesque slashes run parallel, in lines of three and four, perfect little slices through skin and Gerard has to breath through his nose because the alternative is running away and hiding away from what he knows is his fault, or throwing up. Neither seems like a helpful reaction so he takes a few deep inhales with his elbow covering his mouth and nose, closing his eyes.  

 

            His fingers glide like feathers across the ripped canvas of Frank’s skin, angry and raised and red, so many scars on perfection, all because of Gerard. Because he’s weak and he’s never felt so ashamed or angry or depressed because he’s supposed to protect Frank and he’s done nothing but hurt him since he’d come to Gerard.

 

            “Fuck…” The whispered expletive seems loud amidst the ceramic and linoleum, too harsh and not nearly enough. “Who hurt you? What the fuck could have done this?” He has to swallow hard against the lump in his throat threatening to choke him, suffocate him in the stale light of his own bathroom, covered in angel blood and guilt.

 

He can’t help thinking, as his fingers continue to trail across shredded skin, that Frank should be bathed in light, surrounded by perfection and beauty, and though Gerard knows he’s drowning him in darkness he also knows he’ll never let him go because he **_needs_** Frank, even if the sentiment isn’t returned.

 

 

 

There are no words in the apartment, in the world, nothing to explain or apologize or fix the mess that Gerard has created, sitting quietly beside the unconscious angel-boy, gently carding his fingers through soft black hair, tattoos starkly bright in the afternoon sun streaming through the curtains of the bedroom.

 

            Frank has been unconscious for the past innumerable hours, but Gerard can’t help the way his lips murmur little prayers in Frankie’s stead, flittering words begging for help or guidance or strength, anything to make this easier and better because he feels more lost and unsure than he can ever remember and the idea that he almost lost the too small angel, sleeping in his bed tonight makes him feel burning, coiling sick.

 

            Gerard’s too aware of his broken promise, of the words and actions that nearly stole away perfection and he can’t help wishing time away, wishing to turn it all back and try again, wishing to re-make his promise.

 

            Choking on the tears and the guilt and the anger that seems to be ever present he prays to start again, to be given a second or a third or a fourth chance because he’s lost count but he wants to promise to be better, confident for the first time in the longest time he can remember that he will succeed.

 

            “I can do this…I can be better, for Frankie. I promise I will if you let me keep him.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Anyone have any ideas about what/who could be hurting Frankie?   
> Let me hear ya!! 
> 
> Cheers  
> Kat


	13. Wretched Night

Gerard wakes up with the smell of sulfur in his nose and mouth, coughing, he rolls to check on Frank. His arm hovers in empty space before dropping to cool cotton, fingers grasping nothingness as his brow furrows in confusion.

 

            “Frankie?” His voice cracks through the darkness, reverberating around the emptiness and the unexplained fear dripping down his throat. Telling himself that Frank is probably in the bathroom does little to reassure the sudden grip on his heart and he’s pulling himself out bed, shivering against the hardwood beneath bare feet that are already propelling him forwards, hand reaching for the doorknob.

 

            He thinks for a second that it’s too quiet in the apartment, reminds him of the earplugs he used to wear when he shared a room with Mikey; faraway and muted. He swallows hard against the sensation, trying to dislodge the obstruction before shaking himself. He continues down the hallway, aware of the way he’s practically tiptoeing but unable to disrupt the pressing silence, afraid of consequences and small spaces and broken promises.

 

            His hearts crashes against his ribs, thunderous and violent, seemingly intent on escape or perhaps simply on self-inflicted injury. Death by vengeful heart.

 

            The soft moan that filters its way down the hallway seems loud in the darkness and yet, there’s still that sense of ears filled with cotton, the sound distorted and too quiet in the small apartment and his feet are moving forwards again without conscious thought.

 

            For a moment he stares in curiosity because Frankie is before him, lying prostrate on the hardwood, great white wings taking up too much space in the small room, too bright in the darkness.

 

            Gerard’s eyes are wide, trying to take in the sight before him, proof of what he’s always known. Frankie the angel; Francis. His hands are shaking as he reaches for the boy-angel, eager to pull his fingers through the grand wings, nervous and in awe.

 

            He wants to tell Frankie how beautiful he looks, wants to return kisses and admissions and something bigger, wants to ask a million questions; he feels like a fish the way his lips keep parting, only to close again, but there are no words for the magnificence and splendor of Frank, none that Gerard knows.

 

His fingers itch for charcoal or a pencil and then those too bright eyes are on his own once again and it’s like being punched in the gut because eyes shouldn’t look like that; pain and fear and hurt. Gerard feels like he can’t breathe beneath that stare, limbs trembling the intensity and the implications.

 

            The howl of pain that breaks through the room startles Gerard, confusion causing him to lose his footing and fall against the wall behind him as his eyes flash around the room, wide and scared and hopeless.

 

            “Frankie? What is it? What’s going on?” His eyes are still darting everywhere, chest tight beneath the screams that are ripping through his angel’s throat. He tries crawling towards Frank, desperate to reach the writhing boy.

 

            He feels like he’s slipping on the floor, hands and knees sliding against the hardwood but not propelling him forwards. Fingers dig in, pulling and gripping and he’s still not moving any closer. He cries out helplessly, still gripping the floor in bewilderment.

 

            Looking back to Frankie he notices the way his wings are standing straight up towards the roof, nearly touching, little muscles pulled taut and straining before another scream issues from the angel and the wings fall back to the floor with a thump that seems displaced. The agonized cries continue and Gerard doesn’t feel like he can breathe beneath the noise, like Frank’s taking up all of the oxygen in the small apartment because he can see the river of red trailing across Frank’s ribs and waist, covering the angel once again. Dazedly, he realizes that the wings are no longer attached to the angel.

 

            “Frankie?” His voice is no more than a rasp, coughed out and too harsh amidst the pitiful cries echoing around the room. He tries pulling himself towards the angel curled on the wood floor once again, his own tears choking.

 

There’s all of the blood again, like an awful reminder of what he’s done. Streams of blood flowing and ebbing away from the small body once again and Gerard doesn’t know what to do because he can’t remember having a drink, can’t remember anything except Frankie and the way that he’s dying before him again and there’s nothing he can do because his goddamn feet won’t move. His legs are numb; frantic, he looks down to ensure they’re still attached to his hips, still a part of his body.

 

            He tries moving forwards again, desperation and fear releasing themselves in the choking sob, the flailing of his arms and still his legs refuse to listen, abandoning him; his own body betraying and revolting against him and Frank is still there, bleeding out and too pale beneath quiet tears, eyes never leaving Gerard’s.

 

            “Frankie!” He tries reaching forwards, hysterical and terrified. “Frankie! Hold on! I’m coming!” Tears are sliding down Gerard’s face, bitter and burning, blurring his vision as he tries to blink them away, still lurching forwards, cursing.

 

            The smell of fire and smoke seems to flood the apartment, pouring into Gerard until he’s coughing again, wiping at his eyes against the burn. Frank’s cries are coming less frequently, quieter and weaker and Gerard’s still trying to pull himself across the floor when the smoke seems to clear.

 

            Bright red eyes glare at him from behind the dying angel, a growl and gleam of bright white teeth and Gerard’s screaming frantic and fraught watching them sink smoothly into Frankie’s neck, green eyes dimming as lips part on a quivering exhale.

 

            “Gerard.”

 

He jerks upright, covered in sweat and tears, choking and sobbing and shaking, eyes already searching the darkness of his bedroom, hands reaching blindly through the covers until they meet cool satin skin and they’re skimming across every each he can touch, molding themselves into the sharp contours of cheeks, thumbs gliding across too soft lips, eyes still frantically taking in every inch of skin, hidden beneath blankets and gauze and ink.

 

            He wants to cry or throw up or both, possibly at the same time but he settles for pressing himself closer to the slumbering angel, fitting his chest and arms around and against the cool skin, breathing out shakily at the reassuring exhale puffing against his throat. His fingers card through soft hair, heart still hammering wildly against his chest as he pulls the angel closer still.

 

            He doesn’t think sleep will come again, isn’t sure he wants it to but he closes his eyes against the soft breath tickling his neck, the way Frankie’s heart beats calm and alive against his own chest, banishing the nightmare to the back of Gerard’s mind for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody have any ideas yet??!  
> Was that really JUST a dream or something more? 
> 
> Let me hear ya!! 
> 
>  
> 
> Cheers  
> Kat


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